Vincent Vegas

Everything was a blur when he awoke. The last thing he remembered was Fred handing him a paper cup of “the biggest buzz in history”. His head ached. The sound of his breathing was loud enough to trigger pulses of pain, as strong as mule kicks, that reverberated inside what he now swore was his swollen head. He was moving. In a bus. The backrow. Out of the left window he made out what first appeared to be a blob of lights as a huge neon sign. “Flamingo Las Vegas”, it read. “Crap, here we go again.” He went through his pockets and found a pack of smokes, some gum, around a hundred and fifty dollars and around seventy-six cents. He sat up and tried to clear his head.